


The Case of the Missing Manuscript

by nekosmuse_archive (nekosmuse)



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 05:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16340828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekosmuse/pseuds/nekosmuse_archive
Summary: Written in 2007. Posting for archival purposes. This fic examines the differences between Canon and the Granada Series. Namely, Watson's marriage to Mary.





	The Case of the Missing Manuscript

It was mid-afternoon when I returned from my walk to the Baker Street lodgings that I shared with my dear and intimate friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

I found him in much the same state I had left him; still clad only in his dressing gown, his hair dishevelled from the prior night's sleep, with his bare feet tucked beneath him. His pipe was clenched firmly between his teeth, and blue smoke rose from its bowl to curl around his head like some ethereal halo. 

In his hands, he held several papers, and, indeed, several more were spread out on the floor around him; though, from his expression, I knew he was no longer absorbed by their contents. His eyes held a far away look, and I knew then that one of his darker moods was upon him. 

Instinctively, I cast my gaze towards the mantle-piece, where he kept his cocaine bottle and the morocco case which held his hypodermic syringe. Neither had been touched; although I had no doubts that Holmes would seek them out, as the current lack of interesting cases had already stretched well beyond his usual tolerance. 

"Watson, Watson, Watson. My dear, Watson."

I was startled to hear him speak, as the depression which came with the conclusion of a particularly singular case (as the last case he had consulted upon had been) often caused him to retreat beyond my reach, where he would remain lost in his own black thoughts, often for days at a time.

In my surprise, I barely noted his tone, with its undercurrent of reproach. It was his expression, then, which allowed me to take notice of his distaste.

"Why, Holmes, whatever is the matter?" I asked, curious to know what I had done to warrant his disappointment.

"This, Watson!" was Holmes's cried reply, and with it he thrust his hand into the pile of papers at his feet, and pulled out a copy of Lippincott's Magazine, which he then tossed in my direction.

I knew before it landed what had caused his outrage, for it was the edition I had been sent the week before, which contained the published account of one of our prior adventures, which I had entitled, The Sign of the Four.

"I shouldn't say I am surprised by your reaction, but pray tell, Holmes; exactly what is your objection this time?" 

It was no secret that Holmes was disinclined to appreciate my recollections of our adventures, as he had told me upon my prior attempt that it was fit only for the masses and, as such, should never be appreciated by London's scientific community. I had long since accepted that I should never match Holmes's dizzying level of intellect, and yet, I was certainly clever enough to know that he included himself in his inference. 

Holmes's response was a laugh, sharp and barking, and unmistakably bitter in sound. I frowned before reaching for the papers, which had landed on the floor next to my slipper-clad foot, suddenly curious to know what could have caused such a reaction. 

It was true that I had embellished certain details, indeed fabricated others, but on the whole I felt the story was well rounded. Holmes's objection, I suspected, stemmed from what he would undoubtedly refer to as the inclusion of unnecessary romanticism. I knew his thoughts on the subject well, and while I was tempted (particularly after his criticism of my earlier attempt to document our adventures, namely those contained within A Study in Scarlet) to suppress these details, I felt as though their inclusion might well appeal to the public.

"Holmes, I still don't see..."

"Of course you do, Watson. You see, but you fail to observe," Holmes interrupted, and his words carried such venom that I very nearly flinched upon hearing them. 

With his words, he had sprung out of his chair, his earlier listlessness gone, replaced by an irritable energy that I had very rarely had the occasion to observe. Within seconds he was at my side, snatching the story from my hand with the same purposeful grace he adopted whenever he intended to demonstrate the limitations of my observational prowess. 

He found the page he was looking for almost immediately, and I was certain then that he had memorized the particular passage. Still, his eyes remained fixed on the page as he read the passage out loud, his tone somewhat mocking as he recited the words I had written some time ago. 

"Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked after we had sat some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective."

"Husband, bah!" Holmes ejaculated, carelessly tossing the pages in the direction of our hearth. It was only by the sheer magnitude of his outrage that he missed, and the pages I had so carefully laboured over escaped the flicking of the flames to fall harmlessly against the dog grate. 

"Holmes! Have a care," I cried, moving to retrieve them.

His constant dismissal of my work vexed me, and, indeed, provided one of the only strains in what was otherwise an amiable friendship.

"Have a care, indeed, Watson," Holmes scoffed, his shoulders drooping, and I watched as his head bent forward to rest upon his chest, the energy he had displayed only a moment before suddenly vanishing, his mood becoming even blacker than it had been upon my return to our rooms. 

I stood from where I was kneeling next to the hearth, the pages he had treated with such disdain clenched protectively in my fist. My next words were spoken with caution; for I knew even the slightest provocation might drive him towards the bottle and syringe, which were an ever familiar presence in our home.

"Holmes, surely you cannot be that upset?" I asked. "It has always been at the writer's discretion to include minute fabrications which might better enrich a tale. I assure you, I was thinking only of public interest."

Despite my words, I knew the change could not be considered minute. Indeed, upon completing my first draft, I had agonized over the account, my misuse of Miss Morstan filling me with such shame that I very nearly cast the pages into the fire. In fact, it was only upon changing the names of those involved, and distorting some of the less relevant details, that I felt confident enough to send the manuscript to my publisher. Since then, however, the decision had weighed upon my conscience heavily. 

I did not share this with Holmes, yet there was no doubt in my mind that he was quite aware of my inner conflict.

"As I am, Watson," Holmes replied to my statement, though it was obvious to me that our interests were opposing.

"Then why..."

He did not allow me to finish, waving away the question with a short, punctual gesture of his hand. I acceded to his wishes, and took my place in my chair next to the fire, knowing the temptation to explain my error in judgement was too great for Holmes to resist, and that he should soon elaborate upon his reasoning. Having spent a good number of years in Holmes's presence, I had often found it simply easier to concede to Holmes's desires, as direct rebuff tended to delay the reaching of a satisfactory conclusion.

"Consider, Watson," he began, as I expected he might. "You endeavour to share with the world the process by which I employ analytical reasoning in the solving of crime. In doing so, you must present only the facts, as fact is inevitably what leads me to draw my conclusions. By adding this... nonsense! You have altered the truth in such a way as to cast doubt upon all that you have written. Surely you see the danger in this?" 

In truth, I did understand his reservations, and yet, I was certain, having been witness to such outbursts before, that this was not the only reason for his reproof. It was true that his work was of the utmost importance to him, and I could easily see why he might object to the inclusion of what I am certain he considered trivial storytelling; were I to write as Holmes wished me to write, my accounts would focus solely on his profound talents. Despite this knowledge, his words lacked the usual enthusiasm I had come to expect from him, and hence it was obvious to me that there was something more to the matter; something I undoubtedly saw, but did not observe.

I did not suggest this, as I was not presented the opportunity. Holmes ended his speech with a deep sigh and a rueful shake of his head, before retreating to his bedroom. Hours passed before next I saw him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mrs. Hudson had long since cleared away the remnants of my dinner when Holmes decided to once again grace me with his presence. I was seated, in my usual place, next to the fire, and smoking my after-dinner pipe, when he stormed out of his room, sparing only the most cursorily glance in my direction before he took his leave of me. 

He did not tell me where he was going, nor did I ask, for I had known Holmes long enough to know when my interference was unwanted. Still, the entire incidence prickled my awareness, and I found myself doing what he had so often suggested I do. 

Indeed, I did know his methods, and yet, for as often as he told me to apply them, I still found the task rather daunting. What was simple and commonplace to Sherlock Holmes was baffling and arduous to me.

I knew only that his increasingly singular behaviour stemmed from the reading of my latest chronicle. I knew, too, that he objected to my fabricated marriage, and that he claimed the presence of falsehoods within my accounts should undoubtedly cast a suspicious light upon his talents. 

My knowledge of the facts, however, was not in agreement with the dark, almost mournful expression which I had been privy to prior to Holmes's departure.

I often referred to my friend as one who is more machine than man, one who is bereft of human emotion, and, indeed, incapable of anything that extends beyond the analytical workings of his mind. While I have seen, on countless occasions, evidence to the contrary, his behaviour upon reading my account spoke of some deep-seeded hurt which I had yet had cause to witness. For the life of me, I could not reason out what I had done to inflict such upset upon him.

It was all too easy to fabricate a romance between myself and the charming Miss Morstan, as I was, I confess, quite taken with her. Looking back now, I recall that while writing the initial draft I had had no intentions of publishing the account. It was only upon completing it that I felt as though I had significantly altered enough of the details to present it as a fictitious account, and, as such, felt quite confident that Miss Morstan's reputation would not be harmed in the least.

In regards to the analytical reasoning which Holmes had demonstrated in solving the case, my account had remained quite true to the actual facts. Surely an invented romance took nothing away from the brilliance and splendour in which Holmes solved the case, as his efforts remained the focal point of my story. 

I therefore deduced that it must have been the romance itself to which Holmes objected; though, why, I could not say. He knew well of the fondness I had shown for Miss Morstan, and, at the time, he had seemed almost to approve of the potential match. Indeed, he had, since, on several occasions, taken to ribbing me good-naturedly where Miss Morstan was concerned. 

The entire situation was perplexing at best, and so I spent several hours in its contemplation, choosing to remain indoors, with only my pipe for company, while I awaited Holmes's return.

My next memory is that of Mrs. Hudson, shaking me awake. To my surprise, when I opened my eyes, daylight was streaming in through the windows, and my breakfast was waiting for me. I had no recollection of having fallen asleep, and yet I deduced that I must have, for I had begun my contemplation shortly before ten o'clock, the prior evening. 

"Has Holmes returned?" I asked, Holmes absence entirely evident, yet I remained uncertain whether he had returned and left again, or simply passed the evening away from our rooms.

"I'm afraid not, Dr. Watson," Mrs. Hudson told me, and I knew from her tone that she was not entirely surprised. 

"Likely pursuing a hot trail," I surmised, waving off Mrs. Hudson's question as to whether or not there was anything else which I required.

She left soon after, and I listened for some time to the sound of the tea pot clinking on her tray, then her boots upon the stairs. I waited until silence replaced the sound of her leaving before seeking out my toilette, my breakfast quite cold by the time I was able to enjoy it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For two days I remained unaware of Holmes's location. There were times, I confess, when I became quite anxious, and, indeed, thought of searching for him; though I knew my efforts would prove fruitless. Instead, I contented myself with organizing my notes for my next manuscript, which I had plans of calling, A Scandal in Bohemia. I had several other accounts in the works, and, indeed, hoped to group them together into a small series of short stories, each documenting one of our earlier cases. I was particularly eager, however, to document the case which introduced Holmes to the lovely, and exceedingly clever, Irene Adler, as I had spent the better part of two years bound by a vow of absolute secrecy which had only then been lifted.

I had only just begun to sort through the mass of information I had accumulated when I recalled Holmes's protests to my most recent work. Indeed, I was beginning to see the difficulties a fabricated marriage presented. There was no simple way to eliminate Miss Morstan from my future works, and yet, including her required the alteration of several events, and their sequences.

It was while I was contemplating this thought that I heard his foot upon the stair. Having spent several years living in Holmes's presence, I had quickly learned to distinguish his footsteps from those of Mrs. Hudson, and our many, frequent clients. They were livelier, for one, and filled with an impatient sort of energy that, I remark now, was very much in keeping with the Holmes I knew. 

Setting aside my work, I turned my chair in such a way as to be facing the door when he entered.

"This city bores me, Watson," Holmes stated, almost immediately upon entering the room.

He strode into the room, allowing the door to close behind him with a shuddering crash, which caused me both to wince, and anticipate Mrs. Hudson's inevitable reproach.

"Two days I have spent, scouring the city, Watson. Two days, and what do I have to show for it?" he asked.

I was about to reply when he overrode me, answering his own question in a booming voice which easily eclipsed the sound the door had made.

"Nothing!"

"Now, Holmes."

"Nothing, Watson. No murders, no burglaries, no blackmail. Not even petty theft, Watson!" he cried, and then, with a sigh of complete dismay, he threw himself onto our settee, and draped an arm over his brow. 

I knew better than to bother him with petty questions when one of his moods was upon him, so instead I turned back to my work, the problem of Miss Morstan once again occupying my thoughts.

After some time, in which I was no closer to solving my dilemma than I had been when Holmes first arrived, I sensed that Holmes's attention was no longer focused inwards. In fact, I had the distinct feeling that he was observing me from his place on the settee; that he had been for quite some time. Knowing several of his tricks, I searched (in vain I must confess) for the mirror which I was certain usually rested on the side of the desk nearest to the window. Almost immediately, it became evident that the mirror had been moved; some time ago, if the even accumulation of dust covering the desk's surface was any indication. Behind me, Holmes chortled.

"One of my experiments demanded its use, Watson," Holmes told me, though how he had deduced what it was I was looking for, I could not see.

"How the devil?" I asked, turning to glance over my shoulder. 

Holmes was no longer draped across the settee. Instead he was sitting upright, his elbows perched on his knees and his fingers steepled in a manner I had seen countless times before.

"I fear it is quite commonplace, my dear Watson," Holmes replied, yet I could tell from the slight gleam in his eye that he was eager for me to press the issue. I had never been one to disappoint him in matters such as this, so I did not hesitate to encourage him.

"Commonplace for you, Holmes, but I merely glanced up, and then back down at my papers. How on earth could you have ascertained what I was looking for?"

"Simple, Watson. First, your shoulders tensed, so I knew that you were aware of my observation. Next, you glanced towards the space on the desk where the mirror is usually kept, and I knew then that you were trying, clumsily, I might add, to duplicate my methods. I distinctly saw you shift upon not finding it, which could only mean you were frowning. Finally, you glanced back at your notes," Holmes explained, and upon hearing it, I had to confess; it was, indeed, quite simply. 

"What is not so simple," Holmes continued, waiting for some sign that he had my full attention before continuing. "Are the reasons I was observing you to begin with."

"Do tell, Holmes," I urged. To this Holmes smiled with all the devilish excitement that he usually reserved for the more singular of his cases. 

"You have been sitting, for not less than one hour, staring at your notes, and yet, in all that time, you have committed nothing to paper. I therefore deduced that you were puzzling out a dilemma, of sorts."

"You have the right of it so far," I answered, amazed by how quickly our game of master and student had succeeded my earlier worry over Holmes's absence.

"I then surmised, based largely on our last conversation, that you were puzzling out how best to include this new... wife of yours." The word wife was said in a particularly bitter tone, but I did not have long to ponder its meaning, as Holmes once again took up his explanation. "You did not want to acknowledge my correctness in the matter, as you were determined to sort out the problem for yourself. I began observing you when it became clear that you could find no solution without my aid."

I had long since come to accept most of Holmes's vices as integral parts of a brilliant man, and yet, his egotism still left a foul taste upon my tongue. That Holmes's should presume to aid me in something that I had the clear advantage of both knowledge and experience was quite insulting, to say the least. I said nothing, and yet, my distaste must have been obvious, for a second later Holmes was across the room and kneeling next to my chair.

"My dear Watson. I meant no offence," he said, his expression closer to pleading than I had ever had the occasion to witness.

"I confess, Holmes, you are undoubtedly correct," I admitted, somewhat reluctantly, for, while I had not yet reasoned out how best to include Miss Morstan in my current account, I felt confident that I could in time, and, in fact, that Holmes's expertise was, in this regard, quite limited.

Holmes nodded, likely accepting my agreement as an admission of failure. He stood then, and began pacing the length of the room, fingers tapping absently against his thigh, and I could tell that he was already working out how best to solve my problem.

"Still, Holmes, I think, on this occasion, that I should like to reason it out for myself," I quickly interjected.

My request had a very strange affect on my dear friend. He froze, mid-step, and his shoulders became tense in a manner which suggested both hesitancy and surprise. Several minutes passed before he turned to face me, and when he did, his features were stilled to an impassiveness which suggested that he had spent several moments schooling them so as to hide his initial reaction.

It was impossible to deduce what his initial reaction might have been, for the Holmes before me was the Holmes I had always known; his eyes cold and calculating, and his air stiff and formal. He tipped his head in my direction, and gestured towards me with his hand in what could only be considered a gesture of acquiescence.

I nodded my thanks, and turned back to my work, very much aware of Holmes's retreat into his bedroom, and then, moments later, the sound of his violin filled our apartments with its melancholy wail.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took some months to pen a rough draft of A Scandal in Bohemia, as, on several occasions, the problem of Miss Morstan had caused me to turn my attention to other things. I had, I am proud to admit, eventually managed to include reference to my marriage with Miss Morstan within the account, without altering the key events contained within the case. All that remained was the final draft, which I had high hopes of completing during the coming days.

It was during this time when Sherlock Holmes was in the midst of a particularly singular case, which I have not yet had the occasion to document. Like many of his cases, he had been sworn to secrecy, and, as such, I was expressly forbidden from keeping notes on the matter. It remains my hope that Holmes will one day permit me to share the details of this most unique case, as it remains, even now, one of Holmes's most accomplished works, which touched, not only the Royal Family, but the whole of London as well. Until such a time, however, I remain bound by silence.

In truth, my involvement in the case was limited, as Holmes has ever been a solitary creature, choosing to reveal only that which he felt certain might occasion my comment. For the rest, he kept his thoughts to himself, often leaving me alone in our rooms while he ventured out to appease his curiosity and work upon forging the links of his chain.

It was late summer in 1890 when I returned to our rooms, after having passed the day at my club. I had spent the better part of two months absorbed in my notes (and, indeed, had managed to complete several drafts of various accounts which I hoped to one day publish) and, as such, had not had the occasion to engage in more social activities. A chance, then, to reacquaint myself with some of my infrequently seen friends was too good an opportunity to pass up.

I had not seen Holmes in some days, as he had been away from our rooms for some time (engaged in his most recent case, which I have alluded to above, no doubt). One can imagine my surprise, then, when I entered our sitting room to find Holmes sprawled in his usual chair, looking nothing like the man I had come to both know and admire.

In place of his usual tidiness, he was dressed in the rough wool commonly associated with the working class. A coarse beard hid most of his face, and his hair was tangled in such a disarray that I found myself hoping he wore a wig, for I doubted anything short of a pair of barber's shears should right the mess.

"Holmes!" I cried, quite glad to see my friend.

I have often remarked upon the powers of observation which my friend possessed, so undoubtedly the reader will be surprised to learn that I had taken Holmes unawares.

He jumped, quite startled by my outburst, and then glanced up at me with such fear and uncertainty in his eyes that I instantly found myself worried.

"Holmes, whatever..."

It was then, mid-speech, when I noticed the pages clenched in his hands.

"Watson, you are back early," he said, and, in that instance, I could almost convince myself that I had imagined his apprehension and surprise, for within the span of a heartbeat he was as closed off to me as he had always been.

He stood with all the grace he usually possessed, save for a slight shifting of his weight which suggested he had done some injury to his left leg. The pages he had moments before been holding were suddenly gone, and I started to find them once again resting on the edge of my desk, seemingly untouched. Were I not certain I had witnessed them in his hand, I would have, without doubt, passed off the moment as a mere hallucination.

I had never before known Holmes to show an interest in my work, and yet it remained quite clear to me that he had, indeed, been reading over the rough manuscript which I had left out to work on upon my return.

"I think I solved the problem quite well, wouldn't you agree?" I asked, nodding to the manuscript before moving to the mantle-piece to retrieve my case of cigarettes.

I withdrew one before offering the case to Holmes, to which he shook his head, choosing instead to claim his pipe. He remained silent for some moments, fingers rummaging in the Persian slipper which held his tobacco before he had enough to fill his pipe.

"Yes, yes. Quite," Holmes replied, dismissing the discussion with a wave of his hand.

He stuck a match, which he then used to light his pipe, before sheltering the flame with his hand and bringing it to the tip of my cigarette. I knew then that I would get no more from him on the subject, and while I had hoped that he might honour me with his thoughts on my work, I was not at all surprised that he seemed reluctant to discuss it. I could not dispute his reading of the manuscript, for I had left it in plain sight, and, while I would have preferred him to see a more polished copy, I knew he should eventually read the account, for it would have been quite impossible to keep it from him.

"I assume, based on your manner of dress," I said, changing the subject, as so often I had, "that you have some thoughts on this latest case of yours?" I asked, gesturing to his rather shabby appearance.

For the briefest of moments, his expression conveyed gratitude, and, indeed, relief that I had chosen not to press the issue of him reading my work. He smiled at my words; as much as Sherlock Holmes ever smiled, his lip twitching up at the corners for the briefest of moments before his expression once again became neutral.

"Indeed, I have, Watson. My net is cast, and now, all that remains, is to reel it in," he answered, and with his words he set his still smoking pipe down onto the mantle-piece, and retreated into his bedroom.

He returned some time later, looking the very picture of the Sherlock Holmes I knew. No trace was left of the disguise he had worn, save for a slight reddening of his cheeks, which I attributed to irritation, most likely caused by the glue which had held his beard in place. The slight limp I had first noticed upon greeting him had vanished, and I wondered perhaps if it too had been part of his disguise.

"You will join me to-night, for the final act?" Holmes asked, crossing the room to once again claim his pipe. He struck a new match to re-light it. I had since moved to my chair by the fire, my cigarette long since extinguished.

"I should be honoured," I told him, and Holmes nodded, as though he had expected no less.

"Then we shall ring for Mrs. Hudson, and an early supper. I fear the night shall prove quite long," Holmes answered.

As previously mentioned, I was, and still am, bound by secrecy, and hence I can not elaborate on the events which took place that night. I will say that Holmes's suggestion of a long night did, indeed, prove correct, for dawn was breaking when next we returned to our shared rooms in Baker Street. The reader will also be pleased to note that Holmes's client was quite impressed by the final outcome.

Exhausted by a night of untold danger and excitement, I retired immediately to my room, where I slept for countless hours. I could well imagine that Holmes had done the same, for it was only after the conclusion of a particularly trying case that I had known him to sleep restfully.

I awoke slightly after lunch, and found that Mrs. Hudson had left out a small meal of sandwiches and tea. The tea was still quite hot, and I knew then that she had undoubtedly replaced the pot several times during our slumber, for the sandwiches showed some signs of having aged.

Of Holmes, there was no sign, and while I was tempted to glance in and assure myself that he was, indeed, resting, I could not bring myself to disturb neither his slumber, nor his privacy.

I ate in silence, and upon finishing, took up the day's paper, which Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to leave with our lunch. I read for no more than a half an hour, and smoked a pipe's worth of tobacco, before deciding to take up the task of revising my latest manuscript. I knew from experience that the work was dull and uninteresting, and should undoubtedly require countless hours of uninterrupted work.

Imagine my surprise, then, when, upon crossing the room to my desk, I found the pages of my manuscript missing. My first reaction was that of alarm, then puzzlement, for I could find no reason as to why anyone should think to steal it. My first suspicion was that Mrs. Hudson had put them away in her tidying, but a search of the desk drawers, and the shelf above, yielded no result. Next, my suspicion turned to Holmes, for I knew I had interrupted his first attempt at reading my account; though why he would take the manuscript without my knowledge, I could not deduce.

It was with this thought in mind that I crept across the room to his bedroom door. I had very rarely known him to bolt his door, so I was unsurprised to find it unlocked. I opened the door just wide enough to catch a glimpse of the room, taking every precaution to avoid letting in the light from the sitting room windows. I found Holmes sprawled across his bed, still wearing the clothes he had worn during our over-night adventure. He seemed deep in sleep, which I immediately noted as a rare occurrence. There was no sign of my manuscript in the room.

I could not very well search his room without waking him, which I was loath to do, so I retreated the way I had come, closing the door as silently as I could before returning to my desk, having already decided that I should merely ask upon his waking.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Holmes slept throughout the day, and, undoubtedly, the better part of the night, for I did not once hear him stir during my restless slumber.

I awoke the next morning, not quite as refreshed as I had hoped to be, and made my way down to our sitting room, the scent of breakfast and my grumbling stomach far more urgent than the desire to make myself presentable.

I found Holmes seated in his chair next to the fire, smoking his after-breakfast pipe. His plate had not been cleared, so I ascertained that he had only just finished. I poured a cup of steaming hot coffee, and bit into one of the still warm rolls before making my way to his side, resolved to settle the matter of my missing manuscript before I allowed myself the comforts of breakfast.

"Say, Holmes..."

I could say no more, for there, upon the corner of my desk, was the manuscript, exactly as I had left it. With an affront that I very much fear defied dignity, I strode across the room to my desk, snatched up the pages, and thrust them into the drawer, making a particular showing of locking it, upon which I immediately placed the key into the pocket of my dressing gown.

From his place by the fire, Holmes watched with a slightly curious expression.

"Now see here, Holmes! I do not violate your privacy, despite all that you keep hidden from me. Is it really too much to ask that you afford me the same respect?" I questioned, although, at the time, I fear my tone was closer to an accusation.

"Why, whatever do you mean, dear Watson?" was Holmes reply, though his eyes flashed with what I hoped to be his guilt.

My anger increased ten fold at his denial, and I found myself incapable of speech. I turned away without a word, and stalked over to our table, where I alternated between eating and sulking, in equal parts. I was so caught up in what I considered to be a grave personal insult that I did not notice Holmes retreating to his room, nor did I acknowledge his return, or subsequent leaving.

In fact, it was some time before I was able to rouse myself from my state of indignation, and, indeed, even more time had passed before I was capable of rising from my place at the table. It was with a weary heart that I sought out my toilette and dressed. The table was cleared by the time I returned to the room.

Holmes was out, and would undoubtedly not return before evening, so I took the opportunity to complete the revision of my manuscript. I realized, upon sliding the key into its lock, that the entire situation was quite laughable. Here I was, locking away a manuscript, which would eventually be made public, all in an effort to keep its contents from a man whom already knew all that there was to know, and was, without doubt, one of the world's finest lock-picks.

I chuckled to myself with this thought, and vowed to apologize for my earlier outburst when next I saw Holmes. I confess, I was still upset by his methods, yet I had long known Holmes to be a man of insatiable curiosity, so I could hardly feign surprise at his actions.

It was with a rueful shake of my head that I set about my work, which did indeed take several hours. It was near dusk when I completed my revision, my pen hand stiff and sore from overuse. I stretched it as best I could, taking deliberate pains to crack each knuckle, until I felt certain that the kinks were worked out. Only when I was satisfied that I could, in the immediate future, once again take up writing, did I rise from my desk and seek out Mrs. Hudson to enquire on the whereabouts of my evening meal.

I had no sooner opened the door to call to her when she came scrambling up the stairs, a small envelope in her hand, which I took with as gracious a thanks as I could muster. The note contained within read as follows:

My dearest Watson,

I do hope you will accompany me for supper, as we have important matters to discuss. 7:00 p.m. sharp. Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington.

S.H.

I thanked Mrs. Hudson for the note, informing her that no reply was necessary, and requested that she fetch me a cab, as I would be supping elsewhere that evening. As she departed, I glanced at my watch, and noted that it was now half past six, and that I would indeed need to hurry if I was to keep my appointment with Holmes.

I had just enough time to slip into my overcoat and don my hat when Mrs. Hudson called up to let me know that the cab had arrived. Outside, the air was damp with the scent of rain, of which I took little note of as I climbed into the waiting hansom and asked to be taken, straight away, to Goldini's Restaurant in Kensington.

In all the times I have travelled the fair city of London by cab, never have I had occasion to fear for my life, yet my promise of a sovereign if the driver could get me there well ahead of seven prompted one of the most reckless rides I had ever had the displeasure of experiencing. As it was, the hour was just passing seven when we pulled to a rambling stop alongside the restaurant Holmes had chosen.

True to my word, I paid my fare, and a sovereign besides, before hurrying inside. The restaurant was clearly Italian, and garishly decorated in such a way that I feared for the quality of the food. I did not have long to contemplate the establishment, as I soon spotted Holmes, seated at a table near the back. He was not alone. Across from him, with her back towards me, was a woman I am sure I should recognize anywhere. It was the lovely Miss. Morstan, whom I had no real desire to speak with, as, despite the rationalization of my fabrication, her presence was a painful reminder of my weakness.

It was then that I considered leaving, despite knowing I should be forced to feign some excuse when next I saw Holmes. My escape was not to be, however, for a moment later Holmes spotted me, and called out with a wave of his hand that I could not very well ignore. Miss Morstan's eyes were not as friendly as I remembered them being.

"Ah, good, Watson. I was beginning to fear my note had not reached you," Holmes said, gesturing to the place at his side, directly between him and Miss Morstan. "I believe you recall Miss Morstan, whom we had occasion to assist in a matter of some triviality some time ago," Holmes continued.

"Of course, Miss Morstan," I replied, offering my hand.

The lady offered hers only reluctantly, and when she shook my hand, I was well aware that she had read my account, and that she hardly approved.

"I was just telling our dear Miss Morstan that I am no longer in a position to aid her with her latest case, as it does pertain to an individual I am particularly familiar with," Holmes told me, seemingly unaware of my discomfort.

I was so caught up in this discomfort that I did not right away register the meaning of his words. When I did, it was all that I could do not to stammer.

"Case?" I asked, and I was certain that my tone was laced with some measure of incredulity.

"Yes, case," Holmes answered, and it was then that his features shifted, becoming somewhat sympathetic to my plight. "I think, however, that I shall allow the lady to explain."

At my right, Miss Morstan shifted awkwardly, her eyes remaining downcast, and I did not miss the slight hint of a blush that coloured her cheeks. Indeed, some time passed before she seemed capable of forming words.

"I read your account of my case, Dr. Watson, and I must confess... While I am grateful to you for altering the names, you have left me in a rather precarious situation," she began, and I was struck at once with the courage this woman possessed, for she displayed the same courage I had seen upon meeting her, and it was, indeed, this courage which first drew me to her. 

"I am engaged to be married," she continued, and it was a measure of my feelings for her, so long buried, yet not quite dead, that I felt hurt at her words. "And I needed to ensure that your... use of me, should not in any way reveal my true identity."

It was a measure, too, of her esteemed character, that her words held not scorn, but rather, uncertainty and confusion. I tried, as best I could, to offer a reassuring smile, yet her eyes remained downcast, and, as such, she did not seem to notice. I glanced only briefly at Holmes, and found him watching me, his eyes knowing, yet they held concern, which I dare say I did not expect to find. I was so taken aback by the sight that I very nearly missed Miss Morstan's continuation.

"I engaged Mr. Holmes a second time, and requested that he examine your further writings to ensure that you did not include my real name. I have no wish to make public your... interpretation, yet should my future husband read your accounts, and connect them in any way with my name... I'm sure you can understand, Dr. Watson, that I should be required to protest," Miss Morstan finished, glancing up then, and I saw immediately that there was no malice in her words.

She seemed merely baffled, as though she could not possibly understand why I should write of her in such a way. Surely she knew she was a beautiful woman, capable of stealing the hearts of many, and yet, she seemed confounded that I too might be included in this many.

"I do apologize, Miss Morstan, for all the awkwardness I have caused you," I admitted, feeling quite chagrin. "You can rest assured that your name shall never again grace my accounts. I am sure Mr. Holmes has told you that my latest manuscript includes only a slight reference to my wife, who remains unnamed."

My explanation seemed to surprise Miss Morstan, for her eyes grew very large, and she glanced, first to Holmes, then to myself, blinking several times before she found the nerve to speak.

"Mr. Holmes has told me nothing, save that he is no longer able to remain in my services, though I do appreciate your assurances, and will continue to trust in your discretion," Miss Morstan eventually replied, her words made truer by the grateful smile she offered upon finishing.

It was then that she excused herself, and suddenly I was left alone with Holmes, Holmes watching me in that curious matter which suggested that he had observed something I had not.

When I asked, he refused to speak of it, brushing the question off, and, from that point forward, our conversation turned to other, more trivial matters, Holmes touching on an engaging number of subjects; from music to art, to history, to the latest advances in medicine. By the time our meals had arrived, I had managed to put our strange meeting with Miss Morstan out of my mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Almost an entire year had passed before I was able to publish my final draft of A Scandal in Bohemia. I had initially planned on publishing it through Lippincott's Magazine, as they had indicated an interest in any future works I might produce. However, shortly before Christmas, I had run into an old friend of mine by the name of Stamford (whom my readers might recall had first introduced me to Sherlock Holmes), and he had informed me of a new monthly magazine which had only just begun its publication.

It took some months to arrange a contract with The Strand, and then several more before my account made it into print. As such, it was early summer of 1891 before A Scandal in Bohemia saw publication. I had been sent a copy, which I had left sitting on the table next to Holmes's chair by the fire. I did not expect that he should read it, though I wanted him to know that I trusted him to read my accounts of our adventures, and that, indeed, I had forgiven him for taking on Miss Morstan's case without my consent. In truth, I was still quite touched that he had refused to share his findings with Miss Morstan, and that he had, after some consideration, decided to include me in the proceedings of her case.

It was during this time that Holmes was recovering from his confrontation with Professor Moriarty, which I had yet had the occasion to document. At the time, Holmes had forbidden me to write of it, and, indeed, had bound me by a solemn promise to allow his dictation of events at a time of his choosing. Despite my apprehension to allow such a thing, the matter seemed quite important to Holmes, and, as such, I did not hesitate long in giving my word. Little did I know what Holmes planned, for even now, years removed, I am still uncertain as to Holmes's motive for staging his death, or even his return.

I had just seated myself for breakfast when Holmes appeared from inside his room. He waved off the suggestion of food, and though I was tempted to argue, I left the matter alone, content to sample Mrs. Hudson's cooking on my own. Holmes had been depressed of late, his moods darker than I had ever seen before, and while the physician within me worried, I knew a lecture on the necessity of eating would undoubtedly be met with disparagement.

I had just polished off my eggs when I felt the piercing scrutiny of Holmes's gaze. I did not attempt to use his methods, for I knew that such a thing was futile in his presence. Instead, I glanced up, attempting to appear unconcerned, yet my efforts proved in vain, for Holmes was absorbed in the morning paper, and hence not glancing in my direction.

Frowning, I turned back to my breakfast, having only just finished my toast when I once again felt Holmes's lingering gaze. Again, upon glancing up, I noted that he was thoroughly engaged in his paper. Twice more this occurred, until, on the fourth occasion, I could bear it no longer.

"I must first confess, Holmes, that my powers of deduction are in no way equal to your own," I said. At this Holmes did glance over, and I became even more certain that I had the right of it. Holmes nodded, and gestured for me to continue.

"However, in the time I have been sitting here, I do perceive that you have glanced in my direction a sum total of four times," I continued, paying particular attention to the slight shift in Holmes's expression.

Open curiosity became mild amusement, and then, to my surprise, Holmes threw back his head and let out a great laugh.

"Hah!" he cried. "In fact, dear Watson, it has been no less than eight!"

This was said with such conviction, and such pride, that I could not help but tip my head in his direction, acknowledging his rather masterful ability to conceal his actions from me.

"I am curious to know what I have done to warrant your interest," I queried, and upon hearing my words, Holmes's grin became a genuine smile, one which I had only had the pleasure of seeing on the rarest of occasions.

"In truth, Watson, I was trying to picture you as a married man," Holmes told me, and his smile became smug as if to suggestion exactly what he thought of the notion.

His words wounded me gravely.

"Now see here, Holmes. I admit, I haven't much to offer a lady, but I am hardly as bad as you make me out to be," I replied, hurt beyond measure at his callous assumption that I was not fit for marriage.

"Oh, Watson. That's not at all what I meant," Holmes answered, and I sensed a great change in him, his earlier amusement vanishing, replaced by a black melancholy which reminded me of the more mournful pieces he had played upon his violin when we had first returned from that dreadful place where Moriarty had plummeted to his death.

I must confess, I was rather confused, for I have never been able to puzzle out the meaning behind the workings my friend's mind. I suspect my confusion showed, for it was then that Holmes rose from his chair, pausing briefly to gather the copy of The Strand which I had left for him to read, before making his way across the room.

"Any woman should be lucky to have you, Watson," he said as he crossed the room, his tone quite serious, and I had no reason to doubt his sincerity.

He paused upon reaching the table, and set the published copy of my latest chronicle upon the table between us, before sliding into a chair directly across from mine.

"I can picture you married, dear Watson, but I can not picture my life without your involvement," he confessed, and never before have I known Holmes to show such emotion. Indeed, I was touched beyond words, moved almost to tears by the implication of his words. Knowing that I could touch such depths, that he should honour me with a glimpse at his great heart, very nearly overwhelmed my senses.

Holmes, ever the gentleman, seemed to sense my need to collect myself, for he turned his attention to the copy of The Strand between us. Only when he was certain that I was in complete control of my emotions did he flip a page he had obviously marked before my waking. He voice was steady and clear as he read, and yet I knew he was as moved as I.

I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other.

"Oh, Holmes," I said, unable to contain the well within me, and, as such, my words were far more tender than I had anticipated. I dared not say anything more, for I was certain he was already somewhat embarrassed by my reaction, as, in truth, was I. Still, he offered me one of his rare smiles, and, placing my latest account back onto the table, he reached across and tapped the back of my hand with two of his long, sinewy fingers.

It was as undemonstrative a display as I had ever known, and yet, coming from Holmes, it meant the world to me. The thought that his initial reaction upon reading of my fabricated marriage might tie into his fear of losing me filled me with a joy I had not thought to know.

"I dare say you are right," I ventured, once I was certain I could speak without the choke of emotion I knew Holmes found discomforting. "I doubt I shall ever marry. How should I possibly hope to chronicle your life's work if I were to take a wife," I told him, and was not surprised by the flash of light that appeared in Holmes's eyes.

He stood then, reverting instantly back to the Holmes I knew, and, yes, loved. His energy seemed renewed, and his smile was one of eagerness, as though already he was anticipating the years' worth of adventures that awaited us.

It appeared to me, then, that all was settled, for I felt a strange sense of calm which reminded me of the hush that came with the end of some great battle. Holmes, apparently, had other ideas, for, after filling his pipe, he once again retrieved the copy of my latest work from the tabletop, and I could tell from the amused twinkle in his eyes that he was not yet satisfied with how things stood.

"Only one thing remains, Watson. You state, here, that this story took place in March of 1888," he told me, and it seemed to me as though he were disputing the fact.

"If you recall, that was the exact month, Holmes. I kept very detailed notes," I interrupted, uncertain why he would quibble over such a thing as a date.

"No doubt you did, my good man. Yet, you clearly state, in your previous account, that you met Miss Morstan in September of the same year," Holmes continued, and I could tell that he was eagerly waiting for me to realize my error.

In this, I had no need of further explanation, for I immediately realized my blunder.

I fear, at this point, I let out an expletive which I dare say shocked my good friend. It was only upon noting his reaction that it occurred to me he had likely known of my error for some time.

"How long have you been aware of this, Holmes?" I asked, my tone a somewhat confused mix of panic and accusation. "Why did you not tell me before I sent the finalized copy to my publisher?" I continued, becoming more and more agitated with each passing moment.

It was then that I stood, rather abruptly, and in my haste I knocked over my as of yet untouched cup of coffee, ruining, I fear, one of Mrs. Hudson's better linen tablecloths.

At the time, however, I paid no heed to my clumsiness, so frantic was I over the knowledge that already I had managed to contradict my work. The thought that Holmes knew, and had said nothing, did nothing to ease my already frazzled nerves. I began pacing, restlessly, already trying to reason out how best to solve the situation. It was too late to contact my publisher, as the account was already in publication, and hence I could not change the date; although, perhaps I could always claim a typographical error on the part of the printer. Or perhaps I could invent a second wife, one who died under mysterious circumstances. As well, I could always claim that I had changed the dates to protect the King of Bohemia.

Again, Holmes seemed to read my thoughts, for when I glanced over at him, he was shaking his head in mirth, and it was obvious to me that he considered the matter of little consequence.

"Holmes!" I admonished.

"Say nothing, Watson. If, and that is fairly presumptuous, for I suspect the public lack even the most basic powers of observation, if it is noticed, then let them speculate. If you provide no explanation, then they will be left with only that. Besides, it amuses me to think that a few might puzzle out the truth, and know, without doubt, that you do, and shall always, belong only to me," Holmes said, with such conviction that I could not help but acknowledge his wisdom.

If truth be told, I was somewhat pleased to know that Sherlock Holmes, the world's first, and only, consulting detective, whom I shall ever regard as the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known, considered me, above all others, to be his.


End file.
